A.C

In the streets of the city, 

We talk as if we know what we are made of.

We end our days with the thought of

Not wanting to go home;

We have our differences,

But that's one thing we have in common.

We have passed different sidewalks,

Barely minded other people's businesses,

Couldn't search for anymore faces 

Because I have yours to gaze at,

And that's more than I could ask for.

We walk in the streets of the city,

Barely hearing the noise around me.

We'd go back and forth;

The walking will make us feel like

We're in New York.

But, we're just here in the city.

Dirt is a common denominator,

But you could call it neat

Since there's this ma

The things I wrote to forget you, #3

The places I've been

used to be the places

I was going to go back to when

you're finally here.

But, now the least they have become

are places where I've wished

you could witness just as I have,

or places where I learned that

I could walk on my feet alone.

Maybe those places never really cared

if you were coming home or not;

that even though I have made excuses

for your delay,

they're not as interested as

I make them seem to be.

Maybe what they are is

where you're not supposed to feel

like home,

Or maybe I'm just babbling.

See, this poem

is not entirely me.

I am not usually like this.

I drew maps on your palm,

when I realized I could trace

treasures in them,

just in case you forget directions,

just in case you lose sight of paths.

I should've had them tattooed

since drawings could easily be erased.

(But, I do remember how much you

loved to draw on your skin;

that other people found it weird,

but I found it rather amusing.

I thought, How could art still find

itself in need of renditions?)

I am not usually like this.

See, I am being silly again.

See, I miss you tonight;

but, not tonight I could hold you tight.

See, I used to know how to articulate

how I feel but now, I'm all out.

See, I don't know if I'm still

worth of anything,

or if all of this is still

worth of something,

or if you're still

worth of everything.

I don't see things coming back

to how they used to be,

But, that's okay.

Just come back where you used to be.

Or, maybe not.

Maybe you could stay there.

Maybe I wouldn't mind.

See, I don't know where

I'm going with this.

But, here's one thing I know for sure:

for every moment you're gone,

that's every word of an unfinished poem

I fail to write down.

Because what I do have now

is nothing worth a penny

to bring you back.

See, maybe this is what I actually am now;

indecisive,

Irrational,

Ridiculous,

and all those other stuff

you could hate me for.

But,

This is who I am.

And I could only think of

those places as places

that knew what I wanted to tell you.

And in those places I have left

every fragment of my

"I wish you were here,"

and "I hope you knew."